


A Close Call

by The_Epitome_of_Pretense



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Angst, Bedside Hand-Holding, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, Fluff, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hugging, Illness, M/M, New Friends, death tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-07
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2021-01-25 00:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21347245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Epitome_of_Pretense/pseuds/The_Epitome_of_Pretense
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale's relationship is tested when a sick woman appears on the bookshop's steps.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens) & Original Female Character(s), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	A Close Call

**Author's Note:**

> (Side note: I need to go back and edit some of the punctuation later. I'm posting on mobile and it is being persnickety)

When Aziraphale found the young woman sitting in the bookshop doorway, the first thing that struck him was that her clothing seemed old-fashioned for the twenty-first century, even to his eyes; the second thing was that she seemed vaguely familiar; the third was that she did not look very well at all. Her face was sickly pale, and her lips were tinged with green. She clutched a mobile phone.   
He had hoped to spend the quiet evening with Crowley, discussing the progress (rather, the intentional lack thereof) of Warlock’s upbringing. He had finally gotten something right, and that was too lovely a thing not to discuss. But when someone bumped against the front door with such force that the bell rang, he had to take a look. And there she was, a woman in her late twenties, slouched against the red pillar with her green plaid skirt heaped around her.  
Fear filled the air, so thick he could almost see it. The smell sent a chill through him. Without a second thought, he rushed beside her.   
“Are you alright, miss?” he said.   
“Um, I’m not… I’m not sure,” she said, her voice weak. Her eyes seemed distant. “Sorry, what was the question?”  
Aziraphale’s first theory was that she had gotten drunk. Yet she did not appear to be intoxicated, merely confused.   
“I asked if you are alright. Do you need help?”  
She looked to her phone.   
“My battery ran out.”  
“Can I call someone for you?”  
“Um.” She knitted her brow and tried to speak, but seemed unable to find the right words. Eventually she said, “I don’t know. I mean, yes, but I don’t know who…”  
She took a deep, shuddering breath. A fresh wave of fear billowed from her, and Aziraphale recognized the type: it was the same kind that a fox felt in a trap. He had seen humans in this state too many times to count.   
It made his heart ache.   
He helped her to her feet. She grasped at his sleeve.  
“I think you had better come inside,” he said. “Let me see what I can do for you.”  
“Don’t… don’t trouble yourself,” she said.  
Her whole body trembled violently; she struggled to keep her balance. He put his arm through hers. She leaned her whole weight against him.   
“You poor dear,” he muttered, leading her to the sagging parlor couch near the eighteenth-century volumes. She all but fell back onto the cushions, then put a pale hand to her brow.   
“Now,” he said, “tell me what happened.”  
She met his eyes; her gaze faltered with the effort to focus.   
“I don’t know what happened. All I had was…” she paused in thought. “Just one drink. It had never bothered me before—I was so careful—don’t know why—”   
Her breath grew short, bordering on panic.  
“Are you ill?” he said.   
She nodded.   
“I think it’s—it’s my blood sugar…” she said, looking at her trembling hands.   
“Diabetic?”  
“No, the other—um—hypoglycemic.”  
“Right then. I’ll call you an ambulance.”   
“I don’t want to—” she paused to take another shuddering breath, “—to cause a fuss.”  
“Think nothing of it, miss—oh, I haven’t caught your name.”  
“Kay Sheffield,” she said.   
Then it hit him why she looked so familiar. He had seen her portrait on the back cover of half a dozen books. In spite of himself, he could not hold back a smile.   
“Kay Sheffield?” he said. “I just bought my ticket to your book signing this weekend—oh, it is a delight to make your acquaintance. I’m just sorry it is under such circumstances.”  
He shook her hand. His joy at meeting a famous author disappeared as quickly as it came; the instant their hands touched, he could tell. Her time was almost up. The knowledge came with a shiver, an unnerving sensation like great wings stirring the air behind him. It was vague and sure all at once, a portent as final as it was undefinable. He had felt Death’s subtle presence before. But it was not the same as when he had comforted those who were on the verge of succumbing to “natural causes;” this one had been marked for Death.   
He grew sick. It was happening again, and there was nothing he could do about it.   
He didn’t want to watch another one fade away.   
“It’s always nice to meet a—a reader,” she said with a weak smile. “I’ll have to tell you all about my next book idea.”  
A moment passed before his shock wore off. He cleared his throat and tried to sound cheerful.   
“First things first,” he said. “Let me make that call. Excuse me.”  
He hurried to the landline in the back room. Crowley still lounged on the sofa, his feet crossed over the arm. The half-drained bottle of 1973 Bordeaux sat on the table.  
“Who’s that out there?” Crowley said. “I thought you had closed up shop.”  
“I had, but the poor dear was in trouble. It’s Kay Sheffield, if you can believe it.”  
“Who?”  
“The author,” he said, dialing 999. “Surely even you have heard of her.”  
Crowley wrinkled his nose and stared at the ceiling.   
“She wouldn’t happen to be an American with a green skirt, would she?”  
“Yes—how did you know that?”  
“Met her at the pub earlier.”  
“You what?”  
Before Aziraphale could question him further, the emergency dispatcher picked up. He made the arrangements, then hung up and dialed again.   
“Who are you calling now?” Crowley said.   
“The higher-ups. So keep quiet, it is imperative that they not know you’re here.”  
“I know that, angel,” he snipped.   
Gabriel answered.  
“What have I told you about calling my private number?” he said.   
“I—well, you told me not to. But this is important.”  
“Make it fast.”  
“Right. I have Kay Sheffield in my classics section.”  
“I figured you’d put her stuff in new arrivals.”  
“No, I mean Kay Sheffield is literally in my shop as we speak. She’s been—she’s been marked. I was just wondering—”  
“Kay Sheffield…” he paused, and Aziraphale could almost see him scrolling through a tablet screen. “Oh, that. You don’t need to worry about that.”  
“So she’ll be alright?”  
“No, she’s definitely dying, but It’ll be over soon. Just hold her hand and have a sing-along like you always do. Relax, she’ll be fine.”  
“But—you just said she’s—I’ve already called an ambulance.”  
“Well that won’t arrive in time, for sure. But like I said, don’t worry. She’s on our side. Ergo, she’ll be fine. In the long run. I mean, come on. The file says she’s been sick all her life, it’ll be a relief to be done with it all.”  
“I don’t think she would agree—”  
“Aziraphale. This is not up for debate.”  
“But—”  
“Hell wants her dead. They were going to take Dr. Evans—she’s scheduled to cure cancer next year—but we filed an extension. So they’re taking Sheffield instead. It’s nowhere close to a fair deal, of course, since Evans will do much more good in the long run, but Hell will just have to take what tiny victories they can get.”  
Several moments passed before Aziraphale could find his voice. It was too much to process.  
“I don’t understand,” he said.   
“If Sheffield lives, she might save one or two lives. If Evens lives, she’ll save millions. It’s simple math.”  
“But her books—they make people happy.”  
Gabriel laughed.   
“Don’t call this number again unless it’s a real emergency,” he said.   
There came a click, then the drawl of a dial tone. Aziraphale hung up the receiver. His thoughts ran wild. He tried to sort through them all.  
Crowley drained the last of his glass.   
“What’s up?” he said.   
Aziraphale wheeled around to face him.   
“What did you do?” he demanded.  
The demon raised his brows in confusion.  
“What?”  
“I said what did you do to her?”  
“I didn’t do anything—”  
“Don’t lie to me, Crowley, don’t you dare. Gabriel just told me that Hell wants her out of the picture, and you were with her earlier. Now what did you do?”  
“I bought her a drink, that’s all.”  
“That’s all? What do you mean, ‘that’s all?’”  
“Calm down, it’s standard procedure. Make it a double, get the right person just tipsy enough to contact an ex and dredge up old grievances, spread a little chaos, that sort of thing.”  
He sat up and went to pour himself another glass.  
Aziraphale forced himself to keep calm. The twisting in his stomach grew worse; he did not want to believe that this was Crowley’s doing.  
“So you have nothing to do with the fact that she’s dying?” He said.   
Crowley froze.   
“... What?”  
“Don’t play dumb.”  
“They didn’t tell me that.”  
“Well—well then.” He could not think of anything else to say. It did not matter; Miss Sheffield needed tending to.   
He found her still lying on the couch, eyes closed. Her breath was shallow and labored, her face more ghastly than before. The sight sent a pang through his heart. Humans were such delicate, fragile things; it was a miracle the species had survived at all. He had seen to that. Yet having this one waste away in his own shop—it felt like six millennia of failure all at once.   
He knelt beside her and took her hand in both of his. It still trembled, but was growing cold.   
“Wake up, my dear. The ambulance is on its way. You’ll be—everything will be alright.”  
She opened her eyes, slowly, as if it took all her strength. She squeezed his hand.   
“Thank you,” she said.   
The guilt nearly tore his heart in two. He resolved not to let it show.   
“Is there anything I can get you?” He said.   
“I don’t want to… to be a bother.”  
“Not at all, dear, not at all.”  
“My mouth is so dry… if I could trouble you for some water.”  
“Ah, I happen to have a glass right here.”  
He miracled a full glass on the side table where she couldn’t see, then handed it to her. Someone upstairs might notice the records of him performing miracles for someone marked, but if she was bound to die, surely a little favor here and there would not change that.   
Making her comfortable was the least he could do.   
“Bless you, sir,” she said.   
He smiled.   
“You have no idea.”  
Crowley emerged from the back room and waved for his attention.   
“Pardon me, dear.” He patted her hand and met Crowley by the door.   
“Listen, I’ve called in a favor,” the demon said, all his usual nonchalance replaced with urgency.   
“A favor?”  
“To get the ambulance here faster.”  
The gesture surprised him.   
“But you’ll get into trouble,” Aziraphale said.   
“Not if I’m clever. The forces of Hell will naturally throw obstacles in the ambulance’s way, but I could throw in a few extra of my own. Ones that might, I don’t know,” he shrugged, “counteract the rest.”  
Aziraphale’s heart swelled with gratitude. In that moment, he could have hugged him.   
There came a sound from the front room, like something hitting the floor. The good feeling disappeared; he hurried to the couch with Crowley on his heels.   
The glass had fallen from Miss Sheffield’s hand and spilled all over the rug. Her head lay bent to the side. Her breathing was so rough that she whimpered with every breath. He took her hand and stifled a gasp.   
She was slipping. Fast.   
The sensation chilled him. He forced down the feeling.   
“Now, none of that, my dear—tell me what I can do for you,” He said.   
He struggled to hide the growing panic in his voice. It was useless—yet he could not help but try. It would be easier if she were any other animal. Then he could simply breathe the life back into her. A bird or a beetle or even a cat was one thing—but restoring a human’s life was entirely another. There would be loads of paperwork, for starters, and a miracle of that size would certainly catch someone’s attention. On top of that, it had only been done twice. His hands were tied—not for the first time.   
It did not matter which course of action he chose. It would be wrong.   
She muttered something. He leaned in closer.   
“What was that?” He said.   
“...I’m scared,” she whispered.   
The words gutted him. He squeezed her hand tighter.   
“It’s alright. You’re not alone; I’m with you,” he said.   
She tried to speak again, but only managed a wavering sob. Her trembling grew more violent than before. She clutched his hands close.   
He tried desperately to think of something he could do without rousing suspicion. But every idea required a miracle—every idea but one. He knew it wouldn’t save her. But it would help.   
He pulled her to the edge of the couch.   
“Come here, my dear, lay your head on my shoulder. That’s it,” he murmured.   
She shuddered, curling closer. Her trembling lessened as her body grew weaker. Aziraphale took a deep breath; it had been some time since he had done this. He could hear Crowley in the far corner, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Normally Aziraphale was too shy to do this with an audience, but there was no time to be bashful. He thought for a moment, then began to sing.   
It was an old tune he had picked up more than a century ago, soft and lilting—a mix of hope and love tinged with melancholy--the type of song that could either be a dance or a dirge.   
The waves of fear flowing from her subsided, leaving peace in their wake. Her trembling stilled. She was still with him—but only just.   
He was in the middle of the second verse when the ambulance arrived. Crowley ushered them in. Aziraphale hardly remembered what the demon said to the paramedics as he explained the situation; all he cared about was finishing the song.   
Then they took her away. There was only a spark left in her when he let go of her hand, like a tiny candle flame about to be snuffed by the wind.   
And the shop was quiet again.   
He lingered by the couch. Crowley regarded him, his expression unreadable behind his dark glasses. Without a word, Aziraphale found a rag and began cleaning up the spilled water.   
“Was it too late?” The demon said.   
Aziraphale paused.   
“I believe it was,” he said.   
Crowley put a hand to his brow and looked away.   
“I had no idea this would happen,” he said. “You have to believe me, I didn’t know.”  
Another pause.   
“Angel—”  
“Thank you for getting the ambulance here sooner. I really do appreciate it.”  
Aziraphale stood and took the rag to the back room. There was nowhere to put it; he let it fall to the floor. He rested his elbows on a nearby shelf and cradled his face in his hands. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He pressed a hand to them, refusing to let them fall.   
Crowley’s boot heels clicked on the wood floor behind him. Aziraphale straightened up and tugged his vest into its proper place.   
“I’m sorry this happened,” Crowley said, his voice just above a whisper. “And I’m sorry I upset you.”  
Aziraphale let out a frenzied laugh.   
“Why should I be upset?” He said. “Gabriel said she’ll be in Heaven soon, so everything will be alright. It must be part of The Great Plan if it happened. After all, I didn’t even know her, so why should I… it’s fine. Everything is fine. I’m happy The Plan is coming to fruition.”  
The demon stepped closer.   
“How long have we known each other?” He said. He took off his glasses. “You don’t have to pretend around me.”  
Aziraphale turned to look at him. His slitted pupils had grown so wide in the dim room that his eyes looked nearly black; even so, Aziraphale could see the sincerity in his gaze.   
It broke him.   
A sob tore free. He pressed a handkerchief to his mouth and tried to choke it back, but the gasping pain came nonetheless. Now his hands shook with the effort to control himself. It was one downside to having a physical form; sometimes it behaved in ways he could not prevent.   
“Er—oh no,” Crowley said, “don’t cry—uh—here.”  
He took Aziraphale by the shoulders and sat him down on the moth-eaten sofa. He disappeared for a moment, then returned with a book and a throw blanket.   
“I’ve put the kettle on,” he said, draping the blanket over him.   
“Thank you.”  
“And I grabbed your copy of—uh—” he glanced at the book in his hand, “L’Histoire de la Langue Anglaise. Why the heaven is this in French? Anyway. You like this one, right?”  
Aziraphale sniffed and nodded, causing more tears to cascade down the ridge of his nose. He watched them plummet to the floor.   
“I do. I like old books. I like them better than new books, anyhow.”  
Crowley sat beside him.   
“Why is that?” He said.   
“Because the authors are already dead,” he sniffed again. “I don’t have to worry about them, they’re gone. Their fate has been sealed, and it’s out of my hands. And I know there are bigger things to worry about, that it's really a small thing in the grand scheme, but… sometimes the little things are what affect me the most.”  
Crowley took the handkerchief from him and touched away a tear that lingered on the tip of his nose.   
“You don’t have to tell me how hard it is to live on this planet,” he murmured. “How seeing all the death and pain just tears you up inside.”  
“You’re a demon. You’re supposed to like those things.”  
“I’m supposed to follow orders. No one said I had to like them.” He chuckled. “Huh. It’s funny, isn’t it?”  
“What is?”  
“I got kicked out of Heaven for rebelling. And what does Hell say? Do as you’re told, don’t ask questions, no rebels. Funny little world, isn’t it.”  
“No, I don’t think it’s funny at all.” He bit back more tears. “Sometimes I think I’m too soft to be an angel.”  
“Well you wouldn’t last five minutes as a demon, I can tell you that.”  
“I had better mind my p’s and q’s, then.”  
Crowley tugged the blanket closer around Aziraphale’s shoulders.   
“I think the world would be a better place if there were more angels like you. And more people like you, as well,” he said.   
Aziraphale sighed.   
“That is kind of you to say,” he muttered.   
“Better not tell anyone I’ve been going around saying nice things to angels,” he said with a smirk. His voice softened. “And… no matter how many humans come and go, you’ll always have me. For all that’s worth.”  
Aziraphale turned to him; just hearing those words was like a sliver of light in a dark room, like a lantern that would show him the way out of his misery. He wanted to hug him; he wanted brush that blazing red hair away from his face, to hold his hand and never let go.   
The rush of emotions frightened him; he had not felt anything that strong since the forties, since that night in the ruined church. He looked back to the floor.   
“Thank you, Crowley,” he said.   
The demon shrugged.   
“Don’t mention it.”  
A high-pitched squeal came from the other room. Crowley got to his feet.   
“Ah, that’ll be the hot water,” he said. “You like chamomile when it’s late, right?”  
“Yes, with honey,” he said, a little shocked. He had not realized that Crowley had been paying attention.   
“I’m not going to drown it in honey, though,” Crowley said, “You always put in too much. Can’t even taste the tea that way.”  
He disappeared around the corner, still muttering to himself. Aziraphale watched him leave.   
He wondered if that was what falling felt like.   
\---  
Three days went by. Crowley visited every evening instead of his usual twice per week. He made excuses, but Aziraphale could tell, in spite of all his protests, that he was concerned for him. It was better than anything he could have asked for, having someone checking in who cared about something other than to-do lists. It almost banished the lingering sorrow from Monday night.   
Now it was Friday, and Crowley arrived earlier than usual. He sauntered through the front door with a swing to his hips that Aziraphale had not seen since the incident.   
“What a pleasant surprise,” Aziraphale said. “I rarely see you here in the daytime.”  
“Yeah, well, thought I’d shake things up. You know how it is.”  
“Oh indeed.”  
Crowley leaned against a shelf and checked his watch.   
“Hmm. Late,” he muttered.   
“Are you expecting someone?”  
“Just a friend.”  
He shrugged and said no more. Aziraphale decided not to pry. He took up the feather duster he kept by the register and busied himself with tidying the window displays.   
The doorbell jingled.   
“Ah, there she is,” Crowley said. “Glad you could find the place again.”  
“I’m not sure I would have if you hadn’t told me the way,” came a woman’s voice. “I was half-delirious last time I came here.”  
Aziraphale recognized that voice. He whirled around to face it; it was the woman in the green plaid skirt.   
He dropped the feather duster.   
“Miss Sheffield?”  
She gave a little smile.   
“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Fell,” she said.   
Words failed him. He crossed the room, then took her hand and kissed it. To his relief, there was no trace of foreboding in her touch, no feeling like strange feathers on the back of his neck--only robust and palpable Life.  
“I’m so glad to see you looking well,” he said.   
“All thanks to you,” she said. “And Mr. Crowley, too; he visited me in the hospital,” she turned to him. “By the way, you wouldn’t happen to have a sister in town, would you?”  
“Sister? Nah,” Crowley said.   
“It’s strange, I met a lady at the pub on Monday who looked just like you. Oh, but I guess she couldn’t be your sister; she was Scottish, I believe. Anyway,” she turned back to Aziraphale, “I know I can never repay you for how you helped me the other night--”  
“No need, my dear, no need.”  
“--but I thought I would try my best.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small stack of books, all tied together with an ivory ribbon. “I wasn’t sure if we’d have time to talk at the book signing tomorrow, so I decided to bring these early,” she said.   
He untied the ribbon and looked them over. They were all first editions of her works, all signed and personalized. All except one. It was older, bound in red cloth with gold embossing--a small copy of Blake’s Innocence and Experience.   
“I always take it with me when I’m abroad,” she explained. “I want you to have it.”  
“I--I don’t know what to say,” he stammered. “This is--well, it’s--”  
“Oh, just hug already,” Crowley said.   
Aziraphale set the books aside and wrapped her tight in his arms. He looked over her shoulder and caught Crowley’s eye.   
“Thank you, my dear,” he said.   
“It’s the least I can do for my guardian angel,” she said.   
He shot Crowley a questioning look; the demon shook his head.   
“Well,” Aziraphale said, pulling away, “would you like to stay for tea? If I recall, you promised to tell me about your upcoming book.”  
“I would love to,” she said with a suppressed grin. “Is there somewhere I can leave my bag?”  
“Anywhere in the back room is fine, right through there.”  
She followed where he pointed and disappeared around the corner. Aziraphale turned to Crowley.   
“What you did…”  
Crowley held up a hand for silence.  
“Don’t mention it,” he said.   
Aziraphale pursed his lips. He felt that if he did not mention it, he would burst. He needed to do something to show his gratitude.   
Before he could stop himself, he pulled Crowley into a tight embrace. The demon went stock-still. Aziraphale let him go, and, ignoring the burning sensation on his face, went in the back to join Miss Sheffield for tea. 

**Author's Note:**

> So. Ever write a self-insert who's just a side character, a mere vessel for drama? XD


End file.
